Holding the Infinite
by silbs
Summary: Anya Sowe, a sixteen-year old from District Eight, has been reaped for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games. Follow her through her journey to both victory and destruction.
1. Of Slips and Endurance

"How many slips did you write in?" The question is very simple, but nevertheless, it makes me irritated. Maybe because it's coming from Iris, who is sure to have nothing more than five slips in the reaping glass ball tomorrow. Still, I force a light smile on my face, although I'm pretty sure it looks like a wince, or worse, a grimace. "I have five." We are sitting in a small circle in the garden of her house, which is one of the few places in the district that has grass, or any sort of greenery, for that matter. A tray of biscuits sit in the middle of our little circle, along with a pitcher of apple juice and four cups. It's just another of those days where Garett, Nidle, and I happen to get more than what we are expected to need, but we can't refuse an Iris who is on the verge of tears.

Plus, the reaping is tomorrow, so we might as well spoil ourselves a bit, even just for today.

"Thirty." I say as I fill our cups with the juice. I pass around the cups, and when I take a sip from mine, the sweetness of it quenches my thirsty throat. I'm not used to this sort of luxury, but I'm glad I get to enjoy it sometimes.

"I've ten." Garett takes two biscuits and pops it into his mouth.

Nidle, the ones who has the most slips among us, speaks up in a carefree voice, as if the number of his slips doesn't matter at all. "Thirty-five."

"You've got the odds in your favor." Garett jokes, although it doesn't sound like a joke at all. Why, oh why did Iris need to bring up the number of slips?

"Yeah, the Capitol odds." Nidle snorts.

"Not here," Iris' voice sounds grim. "Someone might be listening."

I doubt there's a place in 8 where the Capitol can't hear someone _breathing_, much less some talk about unrest and things the Capitol hates. But Iris has the right to sound grim, since talking smack about the Capitol in the mayor's grounds is something unthinkable.

We sit in silence, munching on biscuits and drinking the juice dry when Iris stands up abruptly. "I almost forgot!" She smacks her forehead. "I have something to show you!" She then takes off into the house, her footprints marking themselves on the grass. The door opens and closes with a bang.

I'm the first one to break the silence. "You really shouldn't mention anything like that here again." I say to Nidle. The summer sun makes his blond hair look almost like silver. When he pushes it out of his eyes, I realize that I should cut it sometime now.

"Mention what? About the Capitol odds?" He says, and he laughs.

I don't find it funny, though. "Yes, _exactly_ that!" I snap. "We're in the mayor's house, and if someone hears us talking about that kind of stuff, they might get in trouble!"

"Anya's right." Garett piques in. Him saying my name makes me feel a little queasy, the day when the thunder was at its loudest still swims in my head. I push it away, though. If he can forget about it, then I can, too. "The last thing we need in the district is the mayor being torn to shreds by the Capitol."

Nidle sighs sharply. "Fine. No more sarcasm at the Capitol in this yard." He turns to me, brows furrowed. "Are you going to Cecelia's later?"

I nod. She's going with Lumia to the hospital today, and she needs someone to watch over Fiero and Ron. Dad insisted on watching over Bron and Cliff, so I took on Cecelia's task. "I'll drop you off," Nidle continues on.

"The factories are a long way off to the Victor's Village," Garett points out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a tint of pink flush in Nidle's cheeks. Of course, I don't tell him that I saw that. I might enjoy embarrassing him from time to time, but I needed to cut him some slack. "Mind your own business, Garett." He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

I try my hardest not to laugh.

Iris comes running back to us, something red in her hands. Nidle snorts. "Speaking of business, here comes yours." She pants when she comes in our proximity, as if she had just run from the factories to the Justice Building. Iris was never a good runner, and her physicality is at the bottom compared to the three of us.

"Breathe," Garett instructs her as he stands to rub her back. She pushes him away lightly and sucks in some air.

"I'm fine," she says breathlessly. I offer up some juice, but she refuses me, too. "Anyway, here's what I wanted to show you!" She whips the object she's holding, and when she straightens it out, I see that it's a dress. I can feel my eyes sparkle as it settles on the red dress, while Garett and Nidle probably eye me like hawks.

"It's a dress." Nidle says, stating the obvious. Garett hides his chuckling by coughing.

Iris rolls her eyes. "My reaping dress!" She shifts her attention to me, who is obviously enamored by such beauty.

"Can I touch it?" The way the cloth stretches out makes me feel that at a simple touch, the dress could be broken. But Iris says okay, so I do. It feels just like how a Capitol dress should feel. In the factory where I work, there are tons of orders for Capitol dresses every hour, and getting to touch them and see them, no matter how overworked we are, is a joy in itself. I touch the cloth, the red, _red_ cloth and feel its quality in my fingertips. It's made of polyester and felt soft to the touch, not too thick and not too thin. And the color—the richness of it, how the red looks so alive, like it's almost breathing. The sleeves reach down to the elbows, and the skirt down to the knees. It's neck line stretches down to collarbones, perfect for a necklace to show. I've never seen something so beautiful in my life. I once thought that my gray dress was beautiful, but that pales compares to this. This is a simple work of art, but a work of art nonetheless.

"Someone named Plutarch Heavensbee gave this to Daddy." She says, her nose in the air.

"It's pretty." Nidle says, although I can tell that he could care less.

Garett punches him in the shoulder. "We know you can't appreciate beauty, so just shut up." He says with a laugh before planting a kiss on Iris' cheek. I feel my cheeks flush. Careful not to betray myself, I look at the ground. Stupid Garett and his stupid kisses. "It's a really pretty dress, baby."

Nidle makes a sound that is a mix of snorting and chuckling.

"Shut up, Nidle." Iris pouts.

We spend the next hour talking, of both important and unimportant things, as if today isn't a prelude to the nightmare of tomorrow. We talk about how funny Weaver looked when he fell flat on his face yesterday, how Iris' dad was prepping himself for his speech tomorrow, which consist of the same words every single year.

"I can't wait to see how horrific Vergil Wellwood looks like tomorrow." Iris laughs. She has the house help refill the pitcher of juice.

"Maybe he's dyed his skin yellow this time?" Garett suggests. Last year, Vergil had green skin. Not the vibrant kind of green, like grass, but the green of moss, which is disgusting.

"Or maybe plucked all his eyebrows?" I say.

"All the same, he'll just take another slip out of that ball." Nidle says. No one says anything after that. I play with the hem of my dress, Garett and Iris look at each other. Nidle really knows how to ruin the mood, just when it's getting better. He just needs to remind all of us that the reaping is tomorrow, like it's just nothing for him. I wish I had his optimism.

But then again, I might be mistaking his optimism for indifference.

"Shouldn't you be getting to Cecelia's now?" Nidle asks. "Iris, what time is it?"

"Four-thirty."

I stretch before standing up. Nidle reaches out for me and I help him stand. "Come on, then." I tell him. "Garett, you coming?" I ask him nonchalantly.

He shakes his head, a tender smile on his lips. "Staying with Iris." He says simply, so simply that it makes me want to gag. I wave at them goodbye, saying our see-you-tomorrows before grabbing Nidle by the shirt and half-running, half-walking out of the Trent estate.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" He says, deliberately slowing down so I can slow down, too.

"Why were you?" I ask back, somewhat angry.

He stops walking, and I stop. "Okay, slow down."

I turn to him and see a stupid smile on his face. "How can I slow down when you stopped?"

He rolls his eyes. "Such witticism."

"Shut up."

"Why are you so on edge, Anya?" He asks in a tone as if he's asking me why my eyes are blue.

I can't really believe him. "Because!"

"Because what?"

Because the reaping is tomorrow. Because I have thirty slips in, and he has thirty-five, and maybe the odds will be in our favor this time. Because Iris has five, and what if she gets reaped? Because we're still stuck in this vicious cycle, a cycle we'll never probably get away from. Because he's acting so… _relaxed_ even though our deaths might be certain once the sun starts to rise tomorrow.

But I can't tell him any of that. I _don't _want to tell him any of that.

"Because Iris has such a nice dress." I lie, but not really.

"Really? You're on edge because of _that_?"

I push him, hard. He falls on the ground. "Shut up, Nidle!"

He laughs, but there is a bit of anger in there, too. I can feel it. "Come on, help me up."

Stupid as I am, I help him up. Even as he stands straight, he won't let go of my hand. He keeps it there, encased in his own. The warmth is all too familiar for me. We've held hands before, but this is different, as if there is a meaning behind it only the two of us can understand. Not really, though. When a boy and girl hold hands, everyone thinks of the same thing.

"You can let go now." I say.

"Let's walk to Cecelia's like this." He whispers, and he starts walking ahead, me tailing behind him like an obedient idiot.

But I don't refuse him. Sometimes, being an idiot like this feels nice. It's just one of the things I can take for granted.

The walk to Cecelia's from Iris' takes about thirty minutes, twenty if you're in a hurry. We pass by what is known in 8 as the Plaza, where buildings doubling as shops and houses are lined up. People are coming in and out of the buildings, some of them with bags of supplies in their hands, the others, plain smiles or excruciating frowns. There's the bakery Cliff likes going to, the dress shop my mother used to work in, until the pay wasn't enough for her growing family anymore. Most of the shops have been there since I was born, and yet the families running them have never been richer than they were years ago. It just goes to show how much District 8 isn't any better, how a district that gives too much to the Capitol would still have their children line up for tesserae. Not every one line ups, but there are still who do, kids like me, Nidle, and Garett. Even working in so many shifts isn't enough to fill your stomach.

We pass by a candy store, where some kids from our part of town have their noses pressed on the window. "Ah, to be a kid again," Nidle says wistfully, as if he has gone beyond seeing the road in front of him and he is looking at memories of a not-too-distant childhood.

I snort. "You're still a kid."

"I'm _sixteen._"

"Still a kid."

"Whatever. No one's young enough to be butchered by the Capitol, anyway." He says out of the blue. I cast my head down to avoid answering back. _He's right,_ I think, but I dare not say. Anyone could be listening. Even the ground has ears.

So, I focus again on the warmth of his hand, how it engulfs me so easily. I wish he can just shut up and enjoy the bliss of us holding hands. Does he really need to talk about how the Capitol can take away everything we hold so dear all the time? Nidle has a rebellious spirit, everyone knows that, but sometimes I wish I could smack sense into him. That everything he says can be heard. That possibly one day—but please, _please_ don't let that happen ever— he might just disappear, the way the more vocal people do. Can't he just… endure it, at least until an opportunity springs up?

But who am I kidding? I sigh. We've done everything to endure.

* * *

_**Hello! Congratulations on reaching the end of the first chapter, and thank you for giving this a chance! This story is basically a "repeat performance" of another THG fic I wrote about a month ago. Anyway, reviews, critiques, and suggestions are very welcome! In fact, they're very welcome, I need them desperately :)) Also, starting off a bit slow, since I like building up. **_

_**The Hunger Games belongs to the brilliant Suzanne Collins. The only thing I own here is the OCs, so yeah. Once again, thanks for reading, and don't forget to drop a comment! :)**_


	2. Stress

Cecelia insisted that Nidle stay, so there we are, sitting comfortably in the couch, a cup of water in my hand. Ron and Lumia are out with their dad, while Fiero is up in his room, sleeping comfortably.

Sometimes I wish I'm two years old again, oblivious to the world, and just sleeping to get through the day.

Cecelia is sitting across us, knitting a small scarf. Winter was still months away, but District 8 is very humid, so I get that she just wants to keep Fiero warm. I marvel at the way her hands are so quick, yarn being pulled through a loophole, and then again and again, until a line is created, and she would start again in another line. She's taught me once how to crochet a simple doily, but I gave up since I don't have the money to buy the materials. Plus, instead of making me feel relaxed, knitting makes me feel even more frustrated.

"How's school?" Cecelia settles down the almost-done scarf and takes up her teacup to drink.

"Simply amazing." There is sarcasm in Nidle's voice. I nudge him in the ribs.

Cecelia laughs. "I see. School hasn't changed at all." She settles the teacup on the table with shaking hands. I've never seen her hands shake like that.

"They just keep teaching the same stuff all over again." Nidle says. "Plus, it doesn't help that the reaping is tomorrow, so they just keep on drilling it in our heads."

I feel a jolt in my body. _The reaping_. Who isn't afraid of the reaping? I know I'm not. I laugh nervously. Only later on do I find it that I shouldn't have laughed at all. "Yeah, the reaping."

Ceceila echoes my words. "The reaping." She says silently, hands folded over her lap. "It's that season again, isn't it?" There's a distant look in her eyes, and I understand it perfectly. She's going to leave her children behind again to be a mentor to the district's tributes this year. I know how hard it is for Cecelia to part with her children, even if it was just for a day or two. It's like their lives are in constant danger if she isn't there.

"Woof's going again?" I ask. Woof is another victor from 8, and even in his old age, he still keeps getting on the train to the Capitol to mentor the tributes. I don't think he wants to; rather, probably like Cecelia, he _needs_ to. No one can refuse the Capitol, anyway.

She nods with a sad smile. "I just wish there was one year where he can rest."

"No one can rest as long as the Capitol says so," Nidle says with such contempt, I had to nudge him again. Harder, this time, so he yelps. "What was that for, Anya?!"

"Don't talk like that here!" I hiss.

Cecelia waves her hand. "It's okay, Anya. Nidle can talk here in any way he likes to. Anyhow, Zander is coming along too, so Woof can rest. So," I can see in her face how much talk of the Games is making her uncomfortable, "how are you guys faring? Nervous?"

"Ces," I say, "we don't have to talk about this."

She shakes her head. "It's okay, Anya. Talking can release some stress. I see that you're in need of it, am I wrong?"

Nidle snorts as he stretches out his arms. "Anya? Ha! She's just stressed because Iris has a better dress than hers!"

Cecelia laughs, but I feel like a storm cloud is forming above my head. "Yeah, yeah. Why don't you just go home, Nidle? Ces didn't even invite you over!"

Contrary to my belief that he would put up an argument, Nidle just raises up his hands in defeat and stands up. He runs a hand through his hair before saying, "Fine. See you tomorrow, then." He turns to Cecelia and flashes a smile. "Thank you for your hospitality." I roll my eyes and he heads out the door.

Cecelia speaks as soon as the door closes behind Nidle. "That was harsh."

"He's been an ass all day!" I get out. My grip on the cup grows tighter.

"You didn't have to be so rude about it." She smiles. Ugh. She's _smiling_. I hate it when she does that. She's all smiles but she's still giving me a lecture, keen for me to turn from my wicked ways. "I liked Nidle talking."

I sharply exhale through my nose. "_Fine_. I'll tell him I'm sorry first thing tomorrow."

"That's more like it. But my guess is, he'll forgive you just as easily. You really seem on the edge today."

"Why wouldn't I be on edge? The reaping's tomorrow, Ces. _Tomorrow_, for crying out loud. And there he goes, talking as if he's got a ticket out of this event, and I'm here, all nervous and scared." Any more tightness in my grip, and the cup would probably break, even if it isn't made of glass. "I don't know how he does it every year."

"He just thinks differently, Anya. He's probably as scared and nervous as you are. He's just good at hiding it."

I scoff. "Good at hiding his fear, but not his disdain? He just keeps talking and talking against the Capitol. Isn't he afraid that some Peacekeeper might seize him and beat him bloody? Or worse, kill him?" No one in District 8 has pure love for the Capitol, even Cecelia knows that. I'm sure she'd understand where I'm coming from, how fearful I am for Nidle's safety.

Cecelia raises her eyebrows. "So, the source of your stress is Nidle?"

"Yes. No! There's the reaping, too, of course."

"How many slips do you have in?"

"Thirty. Nidle has thrity-five."

"Oh." Her answer makes me feel doomed.

"I'll get reaped for sure," I say, giving up on life.

The next thing I feel is Cecelia's hand on mine. It's a comforting gesture, and true enough, it eases some of my fear. "There are other slips in that glass ball, so you still have a chance of not getting reaped." She smiles, and her brown eyes have a warm twinkle in them.

I feel moisture forming in my eyes. "How many did you have when you got reaped?"

Her smile disappears for a moment, only to come back again. "Seven."

"Oh."

"This isn't really the best advice, but don't think about it too much."

I tell her how I always tell myself to not think about it too much, but I always end up thinking about it more. Sometimes, it's even paralyzing, the fear that I might end up on the stage, looking at the crowd, thinking of my final moments. There are nightmares, too: nightmares that look so real, I wake up crying and waking my younger brothers. The fear goes away once the Games start and I'm watching from home, until it starts all over again a month before the reaping. Then it gets closer, and closer, until the fear is capable of crippling me again. "I don't get why they anticipate it , Ces. It's just the same every year. They take kids, fatten them up like cattle, and then bring them to a slaughterhouse to start killing each other. It's sick. There's just death every year. I don't get why they act like it's something they've never seen before."

"It's because they've never felt what it's like to take away something they love." Her voice is silent, a hushed whisper, and I am reminded where we are.

I whisper back, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." _At least not here._

"Do you still feel stressed?"

I try to determine what I feel, and I come up with the feeling of relief, that somehow I got to get it all off my chest. Well, not everything, but it's okay. It's more than enough for me. "Not anymore," I say, giving her hand a light squeeze. "Thank you."

"Back in my years, I felt scared too. It's natural." Cecelia says, squeezing my hand back. "My best friend thought I lost my voice because of fear. The only time I talked that day was when the escort asked me my age."

It's been fourteen years since her Games, but Cecelia speaks of them as if they happened yesterday. From what I could hear, there is a sense of melancholy and fear in her voice, but she talked still. It must've hurt her, always remembering a hell like the Games, but I couldn't stop myself from asking her. "How did it feel like, when you got reaped?"

She chuckles. "Well, I was listening too well." She tells me that she was all ears to the escort, and when her name got picked, it felt like a teacher was calling her name for daily attendance. She wasted no time and walked up to the stage with steady steps, careful not to cry, although a few tears escaped her eyes. Cecelia says that it didn't sink in until she was being escorted up the stairs by the Peacekeepers. "I was lucky my knees didn't buckle."

"I'll have the Peacekeepers catch me if my knees give out." I joke, although I can hear my voice quiver.

Cecelia sighs. "Anya," she begins, taking both of my hands in hers. It's a very motherly gesture, and it doesn't fail to ease some of my troubles. It's fascinating, really, how a single touch could mean so much. "I'm not saying that you won't get reaped, but there are a lot of chances that you won't." She kisses my cheek. "You should rest up. The kids won't be back until dinner. I'll tell them you came by."

"Yeah," I say as we stand up. "I have to cook dinner back at home, too."

"Do you want anything?"

I shake my head. If I don't take anything, the others' thoughts of me being an ass-kisser will diminish. I need that. "Thank you, though."

She leads me to the door and gives me another kiss on the cheek before her hand reaches for the doorknob. "When the reaping's done, and I'm in the Capitol, you'll still come over, right? To babysit the kids?"

I nod. Before she could twist the knob open, a cry erupts from upstairs. "You better check on him," I say, smiling. "I'll go on ahead."

"See you tomorrow, then." She smiles goodbye and walks towards the staircase.

I open the door with a fuzzy feeling in my chest. Talking with Cecelia really eased some of my anxiety, and truth be told, maybe, I could sleep without fear tonight, and tomorrow would be—

"I thought you'd never come out." The sound of his voice surprises me that I miss a step on the stairs. I yelp, but he manages to catch me in his arms, which were pretty strong. I lift my head up and see Nidle's face inches from mine, his blue eyes smiling, but not with his trademark mischief.

"What the—" I push him away as soon as I find my footing. "Why are you—how are—what are you still doing here?" I sputter out, suddenly conscious of how I look. I start fixing my hair, dusting off my clothes: the usual actions by someone surprised by a boy she wasn't expecting to see.

Nidle laughs, the sweet sound of it ringing in my ears. "Come on, let's go home." He takes my hand again and starts leading the way out of the gate of the Victor's Village.

"You haven't answered my question yet," I retort, but I don't pull away my hand.

"Simple. I wanted to go home with you."

I let out a laugh. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're in love with me." A half-meant joke, my voice suggests, but Nilde suddenly becomes so defensive that I am taken aback.

"Ha! You're so stupid, Anya!" He laughs, although it sounds more like he's choking.

"But not stupid enough to fall in love with you." _A joke._

"Haha, very funny. Now, let's shut up and walk." And we do. We shut up until we reach the door to my tenement which is three more tenements away from him. The light in our unit is already open, along with the windows. I see shadows flicker here and there, and my anticipation of coming home makes me itch.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then." I say, ready to go inside and walk to our unit.

"Wear something nice." Nidle says, a stupid grin on his face that makes him a hundred times cuter and a hundred times annoying. So, I roll my eyes and say yes.

"Good night," I turn my back but he pulls me to him by the wrist and steals a kiss from me.

I've been expecting that, to say the least. I can't deny feeling attracted to him, but I've never initiated contact such as this. I mean, what if it blew up in my face? I'd live all my life in District 8 feeling embarrassed, and I could never look him in the eye again. There are times when I felt irritated at him, but that's part of the process of love, I guess. Maybe loving alone would be boring, so there needed to be other things, too. I close my eyes and get lost.

His lips are soft against mine. His other hand has slithered around my waist unknowingly, and in turn, I wrap my arms around his neck. For a split second I am reminded of Garett, but like a defense mechanism, I push the thought away. Nidle is here, he's the one kissing me, not stupid Garett or anyone else.

If I had all the time in the world I would never let him go, but I don't, so I tear myself away from him. My face is flushed, for all I care, and so is his. I've never seen him that red before. Probably because he's careful enough not to show me. "Good night." He says, a shy smile on his lips that makes me even redder. I nod before turning away and running to our door, stupidly happy and breathless.

* * *

_**Picking up the pace by the next chapter, I hope :) Anyway, thanks for the views and visits! Please, if you have any suggestions, reactions, reviews, or anything, drop by the review box below, type away, and then submit! Thank you again, wonderful people! :)**_


	3. The Reaping

I sleep, only to be awoken by the distant purrs of the factories, and Bron's soft snores. Nidle is right: I am on the edge, and I feel like slipping away any moment now. Our kiss made things a little brighter, but as I hear the clock ticking away, the warmth of the kiss disappears along with time, and my fears of the reaping grow again. I bet all the children eligible for the reaping have nightmares of their name getting called out onstage. I do. I dream that Nidle is reaped, and that we don't have the chance to say goodbye. I wake up without a scream but with tear streaks on my face. I scratch my eyes and see Mom standing by the doorway.

"Mom?" I say, half-asleep, half-surprised at her presence. "Why are you awake?"

She comes over to me, her steps as silent as she could manage. Cliff stirs in his bed, but he doesn't wake up. "I couldn't sleep, truth be told." She whispers to me.

I take in the sight of Mom. She stills looks tired, with some streaks of gray in her brown hair. Even her voice sounds tired. Why wouldn't she be? She works hard so we could have food on our table and clothes on our bodies. I couldn't let her do all the work, so I took on shifts as well, and when I met Cecelia's kids, offered her a hand for babysitting. "You need to rest, though." I touch her cheek. Thank goodness she has some meat on her body now. She nods and kisses my forehead.

I yawn. "I'll help out at the factory tomorrow, after the reaping. I promise." I say, before falling asleep again, dreaming of the reaping and all the things that could go awry.

By the time Mom wakes me up, I still feel sleepy. She says that breakfast is ready, and when I get to our dining area, I see that I am the last to arise from the bed. Dad is already drinking some coffee, which he only does when he's nervous, and Cliff and Bron are already eating porridge. I ruffle their heads and give Dad a kiss on the cheek before eating my own bowl of porridge.

No one says a word while eating. Well, at least not me, or Mom, or Dad. The only ones talking are Cliff and Bron, and they're not even talking about the reaping. They're talking about this toy train they saw at the Plaza instead. The three of us finish our meal in silence.

I am washing the fifth bowl when Mom takes it from me and says, "You should take a bath now, Anya."

"It's hours before the reaping, Mom." I try to take back the bowl, but her grip on it is tight. Filing in the town square begins at noon, and the program doesn't start until one o'clock.

"It's already nine." She says simply, and starts scrubbing the bowl clean. "Go on and take a bath. When you're done, I'll help you get ready. Oh, and don't get dressed. I've something for you."

I don't try to object anymore. Once Mom is set on doing something, the best thing to do is obey. So I take a bath and make myself clean, scrubbing my body and washing my hair. As soon as I am finished, I wrap a towel around myself and wait until Mom enters our room. While waiting, I look at myself in the mirror. I've gained a bit of weight, my cheeks fuller than when I was twelve. We've managed to save money and elevate our living conditions for just a bit. It's thanks to Cecelia, too, though: she doesn't take no for an answer when she offers me food, and instead of money, she pays my services with food instead. That's why everyone in our tenement thought that I was using her as some sort of key to a prosperous life. It's funny how a pure friendship can be spun into stories of malice.

Mom enters the room with a dress in her hands. She is all smiles, and when she gives it to me, there is a distant look in her eyes. "Here. This is for you."

The dress has been ironed out, I notice, but I don't ask her why. Instead, I focus on the details: there are faint vertical gray lines as the design in a sea of white. It has long sleeves and the skirt would probably reach my knees if I wore it. I touch the dress and feel its softness in my fingertips. I remember Iris' red dress all of a sudden. That one is smoother, but this dress is more beautiful to me, even in its simplicity. "It's beautiful, Mom." I tell her, and she urges me to wear it before going out of the room and closing the door.

It fits like a dream. I don't need pins, or knots to make it fit on me. I roll up the sleeves until it stops at my arms, and the skirt stops at the middle of my knees. I twirl in front of the mirror, feeling elated and happy, until I remember what day it is, and the reason why I'm wearing such a beautiful dress. Reaping clothes. I am being happy over reaping clothes. A bitter taste rises in my throat.

Mom knocks twice. "Ready?"

"Yes." She opens the door and gasps at the sight of me. When she gets closer, I see tears forming in her eyes.

"You look beautiful." She chokes back a sob, and I try my hardest not to start sobbing too. "Sit on the bed. I'll fix your hair." I do, and she starts combing it out. It feels as if she's massaging my scalp, too. "You've grown it out very well, dear." She says.

"You said once you liked long hair." I say. My hair doesn't grow that fast, though. It's taken years for me to get it this long, to the middle of my back.

She ties my hair into a ponytail and starts braiding it. She swirls it around and tucks it into the ponytail. It feels tight, but I don't tell her that, since it would be a shame to destroy something so beautiful. "There." She says with triumph. I give her a hug and say thanks.

We sit on the bed for a while, and I could hear Bron and Cliff playing with Dad outside. "Was this your reaping dress?" I ask her softly.

She nods. "Yes. I wore that for my last three years. I didn't get reaped, as you see. I wouldn't be here if I did. I consider that dress good luck. I think it'll be good luck to you, too. This year is the start of your last three years of eligibility for the Games."

"I wish your luck will rub off on me." I jokingly say.

There is silence before she speaks up again. Unlike before, her voice is sad. Wistful, even. "You won't get reaped this year, Anya."

I force a smile. "That'd be nice." My heart begins to sink, though. Did the mothers of the tributes before us say these words to? I wonder how their children felt, when they discovered that what their mothers said were all lies. The crippling fear of the reaping crawls through my skin again. It'd be nice if Mom isn't lying.

o-O-o

My family and I start heading for the town square before the clock strikes twelve. I am holding Bron by the hand, while Cliff is pushing Dad's wheelchair. Mom sees a friend of hers and they start talking. The day is beautiful: the sky is clear and blue, while the heat is not terribly hot. I try not to laugh at the irony: such a beautiful day for such an ugly event.

We are close to the square when I Nidle comes up to my side. He is handsome in a simple white button-down shirt and khaki pants. His hair is pushed back, and out of the way of his blue eyes. Wait: is it just me, or did he look even more attractive after we kissed? I feel my cheeks flush, and when I tell him hi, it sounds more like a squeak rather than a confident greeting.

"You did wear something nice," he says in his normal tone. I raise my eyebrows. Has he forgotten about what happened yesterday? Ugh, I feel sick. Embarrassed, really, but sick too.

My defense mechanism kicks in. "I'm not wearing this for you, stupid."

"Don't be so modest, Anya." He laughs, and we reach the square.

There are more Peacekeepers in the square than on normal days: there are some beside the rope that fences us potential tributes from those who aren't of age to be reaped; more on the stairs towards the makeshift stage in front of the Justice Building; and more inside the roped-off area. It feels more like an execution rather than a festivity. Gold and red banners of Panem hang in front of the Justice Building and among other walls. A huge screen has been set up in front of the square, and on it dances the seal of Panem. Just before the entrance of the roped-off area is a long table where several female Peackeepers sit, funny-looking guns in their hands and stern looks on their faces.

"Happy Hunger Games." I tell Nidle beneath my breath.

"Happy Hunger Games." He says back.

We are nearing the entrance when I feel Mom's hand on my shoulder. She gently nods, and I give Bron to her. There is a sad smile on her face, but still belief is etched on her eyes. Belief that I won't get reaped because I'm wearing her dress.

I wish I had the same belief. "See you later," I grunt before walking away.

Afterwards, whn my blood is drawn for registration, I am herded into the female line of sixteen-year olds, two age groups away from the stage. From where I am standing, which is in the middle of the heap, I can see Mayor Trent taking his seat on one of the chairs on the stage, with a vacant seat to his side, and another three chairs for the victors of District 8. Woof is already there, dressed rather simply in a palette of gray and blue; so is Cecelia, who, just now, is taking her seat. Zander follows closely behind her, his face filled with boredom and a little bit of intoxication. Cecelia leans in to whisper something to him, and he smiles in response.

I look to my sides and see the other girls looking very grim. We've had this looks ever since our eligibility for the reaping began. Not only because of the 'solemnity' of the ceremony, but mainly because of our impending doom, like soot filling the sky. I sigh and look at the pavement beneath me.

"Happy Hunger Games." Iris says beneath her breath as she squeezes herself next to me. She is wearing her red dress, and her blonde hair is tied up in a bun. Compared to how I look, I probably look like her washerwoman. I greet her back with a forced smile and set my attention to the stage when a feedback from the microphone resounds in the whole square.

Iris' dad speaks in a monotonous voice, starting from his greeting up until the ending of the creation of Panem and how the Hunger Games came to be. I keep on stealing a peek on Iris, Nidle, and Garett, all of whom have their attention focused on the mayor. The mayor drones on, but now under his monotonous voice, I hear a bit of disgust. It isn't much, but it is enough for us citizens of 8 to know that the mayor himself condones the barbarism of the Games. I couldn't help but feel disgusted as well. "This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."

He starts reading off of the list of the past victors of 8—some of them gone, some of them here, like Woof, Cecelia, and Zander, when Iris whispers under her breath. "Almost there."

"Vergil Wellwood, the escort of District Eight." He ends off, and a man with a poufy blue wig walks up to the stage, a big grin on his face.

"Happy Hunger Games!" He bellows. I take in how different he looks from last year, with the blue wig and pale, white skin, as white as a Peacekeeper's uniform. None of our guesses from our conversation from yesterday were right, but he stills looks horrifying. The only thing that remains recognizable from him is his face, but even that isn't enough to make him look normal. "Citizens of District Eight, welcome to the reaping for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games!" he begins clapping with such fervor. Several clap along with him, including me, but I just give a limited amount of claps: two or three at most. "This year will be very wonderful. I can feel it." He laughs. "Let's begin, shall we?" He strides over to the large, glass ball filled with thousands of slips. I can feel my heart falling faster and faster by the minute. "Ladies first." His tone is darker by then, kind of menacing. He digs his hand deep into the bowl and starts fishing for a name.

How many slips did I have again? Thirty? And how many does Iris have again? Five? I want to laugh at how pathetic this all seems, how certain death can be determined by just a single slip. But still, there are _so_ many slips that I start to wonder that maybe Cecelia is right: I have the chance of not getting reaped. I'm wearing Mom's lucky dress too, so maybe I have a good chance of slipping through this year's Games too. Beyond that, maybe I won't get reaped _at all_. Maybe I can live past eighteen, probably start a family with Nidle, have a kid or two. But wait, having kids would mean that one day, they'd have to face such nightmares, too. And would Nidle even make a great parent? I mean, he can't even live up to the kiss we had yesterday! What's to say that he can live up to having kids with—

"No." Iris says so loudly that I almost jump. I haven't even realized how lost I was in my thoughts! I look around to see if someone has finally been picked, only to see people looking at me, their faces either plainly unknowing, or horrified. I turn to Iris to ask if I say something out loud.

But I didn't. Vergil Wellwood did.

"Anya Sowe!" He calls out again. In a flash of confusion, I look at the huge screen to see my own face staring back at me.

The flash of confusion disappears.

I have been reaped.

I breathe in. Inhale, exhale. There is still Iris, saying the word 'no' underneath her breath when I start walking towards the four Peacekeepers that are waiting to escort me to the stage. Then, I am only conscious of the sounds of my steps on the pavement, the creak of the wooden floorboards when I step on them to get to the stage, to be set beside blue-haired Vergil Wellwood. My defense mechanism kicked in the moment I realized what was happening. I hear things, but I am filtering out the voices. From somewhere, I can hear Mom sobbing.

My knees are shaking, I can feel them. Like an earthquake is happening, or like when I go for a run and stand for a bit longer before sitting down. My throat has long gone dry. I am looking at everyone below and beyond me. There's Lacey, the female bully from school who always spoke her mind about my friendship with Iris. She's jealous of us, that little bitch. I guess she's not jealous of me anymore.

There's Iris, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst a palette of gray, white, faded blue, and black. Her eyes are wide in shock and fear. I shift my eyes to the boys' side and see Weaver, the one who liked to throw punches around school but never had a big brain to begin with. There's Garett, looking at me, mouth slightly open, and then there's Nidle. Handsome, stupid Nidle, glaring at me with furrowed brows, as if he's asking me, "Why are you there? Why are you so unfair, Anya? Why are you _there?_"

I can't say sorry. My defense mechanism has left me passive. I can't cry even if I want to.

I feel a warm pal touch my back. "How old are you, Miss Sowe?" Vergil asks.

The steadiness of my voice surprises me. It's the opposite of the state of my mind. "Sixteen."

"Glorious," he simply says. "Any volunteers to take the place of Anya Sowe right here?" No one raises their hands, not even Iris. Of course, no one would volunteer for me. No one in 8 sees going into the Games as an act of honor: all that's there is death. But I still look at Iris, anticipating the moment when she would raise her hand.

"None? Well, let's move on to the boys!" Vergil walks over to the glass ball filled with the boys' names.

I want to laugh at myself. What was I thinking? Of course, there's no way Iris would volunteer for me. No matter how deep a friendship is, the Games can go ahead and destroy it. I've seen that story played out so many times now that I should consider it a foreign concept. It breaks my heart, but I understand. At the very least, I _have_ to understand.

"Garett Stear!" Vergil announces.

I take it all back. I don't understand anything at all.

Garett doesn't need to hear his name again. He steps out of his line and into the custody of the Peacekeepers. His face is void of emotion, and it is only when he reaches the stage that I feel the tugging urge to scream. What is happening here? Why us? Why me? _Why?_

Vergil asks his age, and he says sixteen. No kids want to take his place, same as me. Not even Nidle. From my eyes, it seems like betrayal, not one of them standing up for us, but I have to forgive. I feel weak. How could the Capitol odds be in my favor, of all days? Mom lied to me! Her dress isn't lucky at all! From faraway, it sounds like it is, the mayor is reading the Treaty of Treason, and when he is done, Vergil makes me shake hands with Garett, to seal this ceremony of utter despair.

I am familiar with his grip. The familiarity of it, really, makes me want to cry. _How did we get here, huh?_ I want to tell him. I had the answer myself. Simple: because the odds were in our favor.


	4. Three Goodybes and One 'How Do You Do'

_**An awesome thank you to Zuri2002**_**_ for the first review on this fic! An awesome thank you too to all the views :)  
_**

* * *

Silence was a solace I could never afford.

We could never have truly silent nights in District 8, mostly because the factories would never close down and stop humming their monotonous songs. In this room, though, silence is my only companion, along with the plush velvet couch complete with throw pillows, walls the color lilac, and a painting of a meadow with flowers being blown away by the wind. I can't hear anything, except for the ragged sound of my breathing. This room is probably sound-proof to further rub in the upcoming feeling of isolation once the Games start rolling again. I shudder. The thought of being alone is too much to bear. I slump on the floor, hugging my knees, trying to block everything out.

I want to cry, but I can't, still. The thought of being reaped is still too large and fresh to take in. It feels surreal, like I'm in a dream instead.

No, not a dream. I'm in a nightmare that refuses to let me wake up.

The door opens and my family is herded inside, Mom and Bron already in tears. Bron wastes no time and slumps himself next to me, his tears and snot mixing. He's too young to get reaped, but not young enough to know the horror of the Games. Seeing him cry so freely feels like a strong punch to the stomach, which, in turn, makes me cry.

The tears escape my eyes so sudden. I am crying now, wailing like the child I am. This only makes Bron cry harder, clinging so hard unto me. Mom takes us both in her arms and she's crying too. "Anya, Anya." She just keeps calling my name through sobs. "I love you, I love you." I tell her I'm sorry, that I'm scared for myself. Dad wheels himself next to her, gently tapping her on the shoulder. She rises and forcibly, but gently, takes Bron to a corner where together they sob.

Dad is wearing a hard look on his face, his chin held high, but I know he wants to. It's the same face he wore during the early days when his legs were taken away from him. I make myself stand to hug him, knowing that this might as well be my last embrace with him. "I'm sorry, Dad," I choke out.

"You haven't done anything wrong, dear," he says, although his voice almost cracks at the end. His vulnerability makes me cry even more. I could feel my throat getting raw from all of the sobbing, my sinuses getting blocked. But I don't care. All I want to do in this instant is cry, and not even the Capitol can take that away from me. "You'll be alright. You'll be okay, dear, you'll be okay." I know he refuses to cry because when he does, it'll be over for us. He's keeping himself strong, for himself, for Mom, Bron, and Cliff.

Cliff comes up to my side, the same look of hardness painted on his face. His lower lip is quivering, though, and I know that he's trying his hardest not to cry. The sight of my little brother trying to stay strong makes me feel like a coward myself. Here he is, an eleven-year-old, not crying while I am bawling like a newborn child. I have the reason, though, I defend myself. I'm entering the Games. He isn't. "You have to win," his voice is quivering as well, "you have to win it and come back."

"Take care of Dad," I whimper, holding onto his shoulders for an ounce of his bravery. "Take care of Bron, and Mom. Don't sign up for tesserae when I die." I start thinking of other reminders to say in case I stop breathing, but he takes my hands in his and looks me straight in the eye.

"You're not going to die in there, Anya." He sounds wise beyond his years. "You'll come home. Promise me. Promise Mom and Dad and Bron."

I smile warily. "I guess I don't have a choice, then." He nods. "Okay. I promise." I am embracing him when the door opens and the Peacekeeper steps in to lead them out.

It's pandemonium all over again. Mom is sobbing loudly, along with Bron, and I am too. Frantic hugs are exchanged, more tears are shed, our words of love become more resonant. Mom tells me that she loves me so much and that she'll be waiting for me to come back home,

At least in this Game, I already have four people rooting for me.

The door closes behind them. I come closer to the door and press my ear to it. From the other side, I can hear the muffled crying of Bron getting more and more distant. I edge myself out to the velvet couch where I cry harder and hug my knees, the realization finally sinking in.

I might die in the arena. I might not be coming back at all.

The door opens again. Nidle comes in, discomfort on his face. He immediately wraps me in his arms. He's so close that I can breathe him in, and instead of feeling comfort, I feel more alone, so I cry harder. He soothes me, caresses my back, tells me that everything will be fine, that he's always there, that I'll be okay. I don't think I will be okay, but I let him indulge me.

"I'm scared." I hiccup.

"Cecelia's going to help you. She's won this thing before, she'll help you win this time." He assures me as he rests his chin atop my head.

"Garett's going, too." I whisper.

He has no words of encouragement for that. No one probably will. He just sighs. "Is Iris coming in?"

"No. It's better if she talks to Garett instead."

"But she's my best friend," I protest.

"It's better this way, Anya."

I cry all over again. This is so unfair: I can't even say goodbye to my best friend. Who knows if I'll ever see her again? Nidle holds my hand while the other one wipes the tears away. "This is so unfair," I sob, "and we just kissed yesterday, too—"

As if on cue, he kisses me again. But it's nothing like the kiss we had yesterday, one that was so abrupt and unexperienced. This kiss is stronger, more hopeful, more urgent. He is so close to me, I can feel his breath on my face, the sweetness of his lips mixing in with the saltiness of my tears. It's the kind that leaves you breathless, desperate for more, but I stop myself before I get familiar with it. If I do, I'm going to miss the kiss, I'm going to miss him while I'm away, and I can't have that if I want to win.

The stupid Peacekeeper enters the room while we are catching our breaths. His eyes flicker over to us, and seeing that he interrupted us in our precious moment, he holds up one finger. "One minute," he says, and he goes out the room again. I would have found it to be very funny if only I wasn't going to the slaughterhouse.

I hold Nidle's hand and kiss it. I take in the sight of him, quite possibly for the last time. His hair is all over the place again, covering his wonderfully blue eyes. I push his hair back and sigh wistfully. "I should've cut your hair sooner." I let my hand stay there, and he holds it.

"Cut it when you come home." He says, his eyes looking into mine. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes again.

"_If_ I get home."

"You will." He says, trying to sound like his usual self. It hurts, seeing Iris and Nidle torn between me and Garett. I wonder if I'd be feeling the same if they were the ones who got reaped.

"Tell Iris goodbye for me."

"Got it."

We hold hands until the Peacekeeper comes and ushers him out. I stand just before he reaches the door. "Nidle," I call out.

He turns to me. "What?"

I smile. I should leave him a good memory of me in case I die. "I love you."

He smiles back. Is it me, or are his eyes glassy with tears? "I love you, too. Don't get too comfortable in the Capitol, okay?"

I laugh. "Shut up, Nidle." Oh, the words I took for granted find their way to my mouth now. The Peacekeeper closes the door again, leaving me to the now deafening sound of silence.

A few minutes pass by when the door opens again. I look up in anticipation of Iris, but it is Vergil Wellwood I see by the door, in his poufy blue wig and clothes marked with stars. Garett is by his side, a soft smile on his lips. "Come, child," Vergil beckons to me like a wounded animal. "It's sad to be leaving our hometown, but we must go. The Capitol awaits." I stand up, surprised at how strong my knees are after this whole ordeal, and leave the room with the velvet couch and tear-streaked carpet behind. Garett and I share a short embrace before making our way to the creaky elevator. Going to the car that will take us to the train station, we hold hands. I don't seem to mind, although I still have mixed feelings about Garett and that day we kissed. He may be the only piece of home I have left when the train starts to run. Vergil takes note of our hand-holding and raises his eyebrows. "Did I get lovebirds this year?"

Garett answers for the both of us. "No, but you did get best friends." There is clear distaste in his voice that makes Vergil chuckle and shut his mouth about me and Garett.

"Your mentors have already boarded the train." He sighs. "Zander had this huge fight with a tribute last year. I guess you both know how it ended. I hope you two get along with them." _Oh, if only you knew,_ I think.

We arrive at the station half an hour later. Cameras are propped everywhere, hungry for the sight of the tributes of District 8. We have stopped holding hands: our hands remain at our sides, our faces void of emotion as we board the train. I don't dare look back, because if I do, I might cry all over again. I can't afford that now; Garett is still here as my piece of home and that alone will make me feel at ease.

Stepping into the train is like stepping into a new, more materialistic world. Everything is exquisite, from the chairs to the curtains that close off the windows. We walk through another cab which is the dining area: piles and piles of foods that are unknown to me adorn the long, wooden table, from breads and soups to desserts. Vergil doesn't give us time to marvel more and directs us to another cab where he says our quarters await. "Rest up," he says, now sounding tired. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow." He ushers Garett into his room, and me into mine.

Iris' room in District 8 is wonderful, with walls painted as a garden, and a lovely bed. It's just the same as this, minus the wallpaper. The bed is bigger than mine and Bron's and Cliff's combined. When I sit on it, I momentarily sink, and rise again. My hands run over the sheets, and I realize that it's silk. Silk! Clothes of silk are of the highest caliber, and here they are, just sheets for me to sleep on! I tear myself away from the bed, afraid that if I run my hands over the sheets more, it would tear apart, I don't have the money to pay for damages.

I also have my own bathroom, complete with a shower and a bathtub. Unlike Iris' shower back at home, this one is operated by buttons, tens and tens of them. There are no bottles of shampoo, or bars of soap to use. Above the sink is a huge mirror. I come close to see how I look: eyes a bit red from crying, hair disheveled but not really messy. I wonder what people in the Capitol thought of me when Vergil called out my name. Did they think I was stupid because I had to be called twice, or weak because I felt dazed?

There is more to my room than a big bed and a bathroom. There is also a huge closet filled with so many beautiful dresses that I feel my eyes well up in tears. I have seen Iris' closet at her house, and that even doesn't compare to the wondrous contents of my temporary closet. There are dresses made of chiffon, nightgowns made of silk and trimmed with lace, more dresses studded with synthetic gems. Never in a million years could I own such clothes as these. _Forget about dying,_ a small voice squeaks inside my head, _at least you get to taste all these luxuries before you die._ I go back to bed and lie down. The pillows smell of apples, a scent I have grown to love ever since I had the money to buy two of them in the Plaza this year.

It feels like a certain amount of time has passed by when a beeping sounds wakes me. I sit up, alarmed, until I hear Garett's voice fill the room. "Anya?" The confidence from earlier has disappeared without a thought, and I catch myself feeling butterflies in my stomach. "Can I come in?"

I jump out of bed and start rummaging through the closet to look busy. "Yeah? Sure."

The door whooshes open, and he comes in. He has changed into a simple blue shirt and black pants. His hair is now unruly, the way he wears it every time. I see him, and I am reminded of 8. _My small piece of home,_ I think to myself before going through the closet again.

"Tried knocking. Didn't work." He laughs, and sits himself on one of the sofas inside the room.

"I probably didn't hear. I fell asleep, I think." I confess. I open a drawer to find socks and stockings of all colors.

"I can't blame you. Those beds are too soft,"

"Aren't they? It's nothing like the beds at home—" I have opened a drawer full of shiny and erotic underwear. Embarrassed, I shut it rather loudly and back away from the closet as if I had come across a snake instead.

Garett realizes my surprised reaction. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" I wave my hands and hurry over to one of the vacant sofas. I could feel my cheeks blazing in embarrassment. I look down on the carpeted floor, hands folded on my lap.

"You look embarrassed." It's been awhile since I've heard him talk like that. I've come to forget that Garett knows me, too, all too well for my own good.

My defense mechanism kicks in. "Shut up, Garett."

He laughs. "I've missed hearing that."

It's true. I've kept my distance from him since that day, careful to not get close, to not get too attached. After all, he had Iris, and I was waiting on Nidle… "Don't think you've earned it." I joke.

"For some time, I thought only Nidle was allowed to hear those words."

"I thought so, myself."

"Speaking of Nidle…" his voice sounds playful, inducing us both to forget the dire circumstance we are in. "About that kiss…" he lets the words hang in the air. I tell myself to play it cool, but I can feel my cheeks reddening again,

He hasn't forgotten about it! I panic, thinking of a way out. I have Nidle already! I told him that I love him! I don't have time for Garett messing with my head! "Kiss?" I try to mask my panic with indifference. The look on his face says that I'm not doing the greatest job. "What kiss?"

"You and Nidle." The words are the ones I didn't expect. I swallow hard, trying to understand its simplicity.

"Me and Nidle?" I choke out. _I'm saved?_

"Yes. Yesterday, was it? He ran to my house afterwards and gushed about it, like a five-year old." He laughs. "I've never seen him so excited about something. Well, it was about time, too. I knew it was coming, I just didn't expect him to do it on his own."

I laugh with relief. He doesn't remember it. Good for me, good for him, and good for everyone else. "You talk as if you're such a love expert."

"I am," he says with dignity and the faux-cockiness that I have missed hearing. "Anyway, how was he as a kisser? I gave him tips."

I could not help but break out into a grin. It wasn't in Nidle's nature to ask Garett for help. Maybe he kept that from me so that he'd appear manlier. "Well, it was a surprise one, so I'd say… abrupt?" The kiss yesterday resurfaces in my head. "Sweet, too. I never thought that Nidle could be so sweet."

"Was it different from our kiss?"

His words send me into a frenzy. I am thrown unguarded into a pool of guilt, longing, indifference, excitement, every emotion imaginable. I want to slap Garett for bringing it up, and at the same time, thank him for it. I can feel my mind working fast, thinking of another way out, when I give up on it entirely. I stare at the floor again, and for a moment, the sound of the train running at full speed fills the room. "I thought you'd forgotten about that." I say afterwards silently.

"Are we steering away from this?" He says in the same tone as mine: silent, but still hopeful, with a mix of apologetic feelings and unanswered questions.

"Not if you want to." I hug my knees.

"We've never talked about it."

The playfulness of our conversation has disappeared entirely. "Isn't that better? To just forget about it?" _I've never forgotten about it, Garett,_ I say to myself, _I never have._ That stormy day runs through my head like it happened yesterday and not almost a year ago. I've buried it somewhere in my head only to resurface every time.

Garett's dad was sick then, with a runny nose and a fever. Mom made me run to their house with a bowl of broth to give, since Garett had no knowledge of cooking, and our family was the only one close to them to care. The sky was dark when, like clouds made up of soot instead of vapor. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, and the pavement was wet from the rain the night before.

It wasn't a deathly fever, really, one that could be healed by broth, water, and rest, but Mom and Dad were still worried, and so was I. When I got to Garett's house, his dad was asleep, and he was watching over him like an obedient son. We rouse him from the bed to make him drink up some soup and water to ease his pain. As we changed the towel to cool his head, rain started to fall down in big drops that it made loud beats on the roof and on the windows. I couldn't get home since our unit was quite far away, and the rain was too hard, with the wind to match it up. The thunder became loud and loud until it was met with lighting.

I've never liked lighting. I don't know why, but I just don't. Garett knew that, too, so he tried to make me comfortable even if it was already flashing outside. We talked and talked of stories, stopped by the lighting, only to go on again afterwards. We talked of a lot of things, I remember, before the loudest strike of lightning happened.

I was in his arms in that instant, my face buried in his chest. The lightning was so loud that I started to tremble and cry, thoughts of being electrocuted to death swimming in my mind. It didn't help that another flash of lightning occurred. I yelped for help, cried louder, sobbed until his lips silenced me. It surprised me, but his scent and lips tore me away from the sound of the lightning. We only stopped kissing when it was only the rain that remained.

I sigh. I remember it all too well.

"I think it's best to talk about it."

"Well," I roll my eyes, "we're talking about it now."

"Seems like you don't want to."

"I can't see the point in it."

"The point is, Anya, is that kiss is creating a rift between us."

I scoff. My mood has changed entirely, my defense mechanism is up a notch. "Who made that kiss happen in the first place?"

He raises his hands in mock truce. "There's the rift right there." He sighs. "Anya, all I'm saying is, this kiss has made us… well, on the edge about each other. It's ruining our friendship, and I guess… it's not good for us. We're going into the Games, Anya. One of us might die. Worse, we _could_ die. I don't want to die knowing that there's a rift between us because of one simple kiss."

"So, you're basically saying that we should forget about it? The kiss?"

Garett shakes his head. "Forget? No. I think… not letting it destroy us, is what I've been trying to say." The way he says it makes me smile. The problem with me is I can never stay mad at Nidle, or Garett, or Iris. They always seem to know how to thaw my snappy mechanism down.

"It hasn't destroyed us." _Not entirely._

"So, we're going to work together through this? Forget the rift?"

I have no problem seeing him as my ally in this Game. We are best friends, people from the same district: he's my remaining piece of home, too, and I'm not letting go that easily. The kiss I could keep locked away again, at least until this thing is over or when I'm not breathing anymore. I make myself smile at him freely, the first time since we've kissed. _I have Nidle now. His kisses are all I need to think of,_ I tell myself. "Best friends again?" I ask.

He smiles, his eyes lighting up. I feel my heart thump for a second, and then it's gone in a flash. "Yes. Best friends again."


	5. Strawberry Chocolate Cake

_**A huge thank you to reviews by the amazing Elysian Dawn and 3hunna! A huge thanks also to the people who followed and made this fic one of their favorites. Thank you for the views! I feel so up in the clouds with your feedback.**_

* * *

You'd think Garett and I aren't friends by the long time we catch up with each other. It's as if we're two greatest friends seeing each other after a long time being apart, although we've always been together. We spend the next few hours talking and laughing like we have never done since we kissed. Now that that is all behind us, we're free again, and we're not willing to let go of each other soon. It's a fast and welcome transition that leaves me breathless. We may be going into the Games, but we're still friends. Before all of this, we're still best friends. I guess that's something they can't take away.

We only stop when the door opens with a _whoosh_, and Cecelia is standing there, a small smile on her lips. "Time for dinner," she says, as if she's talking to her three children back at home. I feel warm inside, knowing that someone like family is close to me, aside from Garett. Rather than think I'm in a train headed to my imminent death, I think that I am on a pleasant trip with Garett and Cecelia. With that thought in mind, I get excited: I pull Garett up and hold his hand, trailing behind Cecelia, until we enter the cabin where our dinner awaits.

The food from earlier is gone and is replaced entirely by new sets of dishes. There are tiers of both weird and appetizing-looking bread, with small jars of dips by the side on one table; pots of stews and other soups sit idle by another table. In the main table await the utensils and plates, along with the other food. I can feel my mouth watering, and that transpires into me squeezing Garett's hand. He's probably smiling, but I can't tear my attention away from the food.

There was a long period in my life where our family didn't get to eat flavorful food, such as meat or even a bunch of fruits. I got a job at the factory, and that didn't change much. But it did change when I got a job at Cecelia's as a babysitter. I owe her so much.

That being said, the food in front of me makes me want to cry.

Vergil Wellwood ruins the mood. Kind of. "Well, what are you waiting for? Eat up!"

Garett and I hold hands until we take our seats, earning a sly smile from Vergil. We sit together, across woof and Cecelia. Vergil sits by the head of the table, while Zander is on the other side. Attendants begin serving the food, course by course. I feel giddy by all the service we are receiving, but mostly because of the food. The first thing they serve is a thick corn soup that Woof clearly likes. The flavors burst in my mouth as soon as I taste it. "Hey, don't cry." Garett says underneath his breath. I nudge him.

"Eat your soup," I say.

There are so many dishes served that I only take about three bites of each so I can taste all of them. It proved to be futile because there are just _so_ many dishes that by the time dessert rolls in, I am famished. Garett looks at me like I'm dying.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

I wave my hand. "Just a little full."

Vergil dips a pretzel (the term thankfully provided by Cecelia) into a pot of melted chocolate and nibbles away. "Wait until you arrive at the Capitol. The food will be more plentiful and more delicious there. I myself am _starving_ with the choices here."

_This_ isn't plentiful and delicious as it is? _This—all of this—_ is making him starve? I know it's a joke, a folly, but the way he says it makes me want to gouge my eyes out. I hold onto my cup of orange juice with all my might. If I throw it at him, I might as well be throwing my life away, since Vergil can help with sponsors once the Games start. I grind my teeth in newfound rage. _He's starving?!_ And what are we back in 8? Satisfied? Disgusted, I slam my cup on the table and walk out in anger to my room.

When the door closes behind me and I am in the comfort of the big bed, I convince myself that my reaction is justifiable, and that I didn't get mad over a petty matter. How these Capitol citizens talk about their lifestyle like they have the worst of it makes me want to scream. That, or Vergil is just an insensitive jerk.

I sigh. This'll probably go away tomorrow morning. I always seem to do that with my emotions of rage: I wake up the next day and I am a person born anew, ready to start with a clean slate. Except with Weaver and Lacey, whom I never liked anyway. They're bullies, especially that Lacey who always gossiped about me and Iris, saying that I'm an ass-kisser. She's lucky though: she's not on a train to the Capitol. I clutch the silk sheets in my hand and stare at the bare ceiling of the train. The pleasant flavors from the food earlier are slowly disappearing, leaving me with a bitter taste in my tongue. And there I was, so happy moments ago, with the idea of extravagance and luxury presented through Capitol means! I feel as if I've betrayed myself.

The door opens and Cecelia comes in, two mugs in her hand. "Hey," she says in a comforting tone I always seem to hear, "you missed dessert."

I bury myself under some pillows in shame. "I lost my appetite."

"Is it about what Vergil said?" I hear her settle the mugs down on the bedside table.

"Yes. And maybe a bit no."

"I can't hear you clearly."

I throw the pillow to the side. "Yes, and maybe a bit no."

"He _does_ have a way with words, that one." Cecelia laughs. "Come on, sit up. I brought you a mug of hot chocolate."

I sit up almost immediately at the sound of the word chocolate. "What?"

"Hot chocolate." She repeats, giving the mug over to me. The body of the mug is hot, so I hold it by the ear. "It's Lumia's favorite. She drinks it every morning, before leaving for school."

I take a sip of the drink. As it runs down my throat, it fills me with sweetness and, at the same time, bitterness. When the liquid reaches my stomach, somehow, it tastes a bit like loneliness, too. I cast my head down. "I'm sorry I couldn't babysit the kids."

Cecelia lifts my chin up so I could stare into her eyes. They're brown, like Lumia's and Fiero's. In a split second I remember my mom and how far away she is. My lower lip quivers in longing. "It's okay, Anya." She whispers before hugging me. "It's okay."

"I'll die out there." I say, defeated.

"I'm here. I won't let you die."

I'm sure she's telling the truth, but I can't make myself rest on that. Instead, I force up a smile when she lets go of me. "I'm just going to enjoy this hot chocolate. Thanks, Ces."

Cecelia pats my head. "The recap for the reaping is on Everyone's going to watch. Want to join us?"

If everyone is watching, then I must, too. "I guess," I shrug, making myself stand. I bring the mug of hot chocolate with me as we go outside and enter a different cab. It's obviously designed as a living room, with the long sofa and single sofas and a television set where the symbol of Panem flickers. Zander, victor of the 58th Hunger Games, sits cross-legged on a single sofa with a glass of wine in his hand. Woof sits on the opposite sofa, and he looks like he's dozing off. Vergil sits by the end of the long sofa, chatting away, though it seems like he's not talking to anyone. Garett is sitting beside him, rolling his eyes until he sees me and Cecelia. He smiles, and pats the empty space beside him. I sit there without asking questions. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze before turning his attention to the screen when the theme for Caesar Flickerman's show begins playing.

"I can't wait to see how the other tributes look like!" Vergil exclaims. He turns and notices me, and says, "Ah, you're there, sweetcheeks. Enjoy the show!"

I roll my eyes.

Caesar Flickerman appears on the screen, greeting "Welcome, welcome!" to the audience members amidst loud cheers. He is dressed in a cyan suit that contrasts with his orange hair, his white teeth gleaming along with the lights. "This day," he says in a low tone that is both excited and calm, "marks the beginning of the 69th Hunger Games. The tributes have been reaped, and, of course, from these tributes will come our newest victor." And then, he is loud all over again. "Who is ready to meet them?" The audience cheers. "Sadly, they're not in the Capitol yet, but let us keep fresh the excitement!" He calls on his co-host, the legendary Claudius Templesmith, with his golden hair and golden suit. They go over to a table where they chatter away about the tributes this year, and how excited they are.

"Just get on with it," Zander calls out, and, as if they heard him, Caesar and Claudius begin.

"Up first are the tributes of District One." Claudius begins, and the reaping ceremony of 1 begins to play. It's been edited, of course, so they skip on directly to the names of the tributes being picked and called out, and volunteers taking their places. The volunteers are both eighteen-year olds with strong builds. The girl isn't very muscular like the boy, but she looks strong, nevertheless.

"She looks confident, I'll give her that." I hear Cecelia say, to which Zander replies, "The tributes from One always look confident." It's true, though. Volunteering to go into the Games is such a huge honor for them, along with districts 2 and 4. That's why most victors come from their districts.

There are also volunteers from 2 and 4, as expected. The recap goes by quickly, and I count using my fingers that three twelve-year olds have been called. Watching our own reaping makes me want to cringe, but Garett and I get through quite alright, After the recap is done, our mentors and us do a recap ourselves, with them asking me and Garett who we thought are the stand-outs.

"Definitely the guys from One and Two." Garett says. "The guy from One looks monstrous."

I nod. "The guys from Four looks intimidating, too."

"Did you see the girl from Five who cried? Poor little thing," Vergil quips in. "She's not going to get sponsors."

"So she's a _poor little thing_ because she's not going to get sponsors and _not_ because she's a twelve-year old?" I snap. Garett squeezes my hand while Cecelia squeezes my other hand.

Vergil chuckles as if I said something stupid. "Sweetcheeks, in this Game, age _may_ matter, but the way you present yourself matters more." He stands up and claps twice. "Now, everyone have a good night's sleep, because tomorrow, we arrive in the Capitol!" He walks off into his own quarters, laughing to himself like a lunatic.

"You have to admit, he has a point." Zander says. He wakes up Woof who has been asleep all along, and helps him into his quarters, leaving me, Cecelia, and Garett.

My cheeks are red with rage again. Garett says something I don't understand because I am too consumed with anger. I storm off into my room again, paying no mind to them calling me. It is when I am lying on the bed again that I decide that this will go away early in the morning.

The door opens. I sit up in surprise and see Garett with a tray in his hands. On the tray are two cups and a pitcher, and a whole round cake; the cake is white, with strawberries on top, and a few dusts of chocolate. "Cecelia told me to bring you some sweets." He smiles and enters, settling the tray on the small table in the room.

"Will that make me feel better?" I ask, although the sight of the cake is already making me happy.

"Come on and have a bite." He invites, and I accept. When I get to the table, I see that there are no plates, just two forks: one for me and one for him. I tell him my observation, and he laughs. "I'm pretty sure we can finish this by ourselves."

I start eating the cake. It's chocolate inside, a bit bitter, which is the perfect contrast to the sweetness of the cream and strawberries. We sit on the floor while eating, none of us saying a word. To my surprise, we have already eaten half of the cake. I still don't feel satisfied, though.

"Vergil is an ass." Garett declares. I choke on the piece of cake I am eating, and he hurriedly pats my back to help me. I gasp in air and drink water for good measure. "Why so surprised?" He says as soon as I recover.

"It's just the way you deliver it," I whine. "But yes, he is an ass. I can't believe him."

"Makes it hard to believe that he's from the same place as us."

That takes me aback. "He's from Eight?"

"No, his grandmother is." Apparently, Garett tells me, Vergil's grandmother is a victor of one of the earliest Games, and she hails from District 8. The details are hazy, but Grandmother Wellwood got married to a man from the Capitol and lived there for the remainder of her life, giving birth to Vergil's father, who, in turn, gave life to him. "He has 'victor's blood' in him, he says, that's why he wanted to be a part of the Games."

I snort. "If he has victor's blood, then he should try volunteering for the Games."

Garett laughs, but says, "You know that won't happen."

"Why?" I say. "Because he's a Capitol citizen?"

"No. Because he's beyond the age limit."

It takes us a long time to finish the cake, and when we look at the time, we see that it is already an hour before midnight. We haven't been away from 8 for twenty-four hours, but it feels as if we've been away for weeks. "I wonder if Nidle's asleep." I say out loud.

"He and Iris probably had a long talk." Garett's tone is quiet, as if I had touched on a sensitive matter. And I did. I forgot along the way that Nidle didn't say goodbye to him, and Iris didn't say goodbye to me. Our best friends couldn't say goodbye to us.

I am such an insensitive jerk. Insensitive, yes, but not like Vergil Wellwood's level of insensitivity. He is so much more insensitive than I am.

"I'm sorry Nidle couldn't say goodbye personally to you." I say.

"I'm sorry that it's the same with Iris." He says back. The sound of her name makes me guilty, though I don't know why.

"He wanted to see you, you know."

"Well, we can't do anything about that now. All that remains is that we need to make the most out of this."

Out of what? Out of the Games? Out of the short-term luxuries presented at our feet? Out of the circumstances that made us alright with each other again? I don't know the answer, so I smile and nod. "Yeah. Thanks for the cake."

He smiles. It's the kind of smile that makes you feel warm and fuzzy, the kind of smile that can make me feel like I never left home in the first place. "You should thank the cook."

"Ha. You know what I mean."

"So, I'll see you tomorrow morning?" He gets himself ready to stand up, but not before I take his hand in mine and squeeze it.

"Thanks, Garett. Really." He smiles back at me again, and for a while, I forget once more that we are now part of the Games. "And yes, I'll see you tomorrow morning. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

He chuckles and I help him stand up, He takes the tray, now with an empty plate and empty glasses and an empty pitcher, and heads for the door.

But not without bidding me a good night's sleep first.

And kissing the top of my head, like it's a normal gesture between girls and boys. He probably doesn't think of that in _that _way, but I do, and I blush like a total idiot. The door closes between me and him, and I could perfectly hear the soft rumbling of the train, moving at top speed.

That night, I dream of my family, Nidle, cake, and saying goodbye to Iris.


	6. Sweetcheeks

Trees whirl by so fast, they almost become a blur. Still, I catch myself staring at them since I am not accustomed to the sight of greenery. District 8 has close to none, and it would be a crime if I died without seeing such beauty.

Well, there goes one thing I can check off of my list entitled, 'Things I Need to Do or See Before I Die.' Along with this apple pie I am currently wolfing down. "You should have some," I tell Garett. It's at the last moment that I remember Nidle and his love for apples. "Nidle would love this." The sound of his name coming out of my mouth makes me feel sad. I push away the feeling and tell myself that it's okay. We'll be okay.

Garett takes a sip from his cup of coffee. He made me taste it earlier, but one sniff and a tiny sip later, I resigned myself to the fact that coffee doesn't taste good. It's too bitter. "Lay off the sweets, Anya." He says with a small smile. "We ate that whole cake yesterday."

I wave my fork with the piece of apple pie at him. "No can do," I laugh, and pop the food into my mouth. An attendant suddenly appears and offers me more hot chocolate, which I accept. He then leaves again, leaving me and Garett alone. The others are still asleep, which is something I find to be very mysterious, since adults wake up earlier than kids do. I'm glad though, that Vergil isn't awake yet. I get the chance to enjoy the food without hearing him spout out nonsense. Insensitive people can ruin even the greatest tasting food. "He would really like this," I say, thinking of Nidle.

"How far do you think we are from the Capitol?" Garett asks as he bites into a piece of toast lathered with blueberry jam.

I shrug. "How would I know?"

"It's a question that asks for your opinion, not facts."

"Whatever. Probably, about three hours?"

The door opens with a _whoosh_, and inside steps Vergil dressed in a rather underwhelming outfit that consists of a simple black suit and white. "We will actually be there by one in the afternoon." He takes the seat from across me and smiles that stupid sly smile when he looks around and seems only me and Garett, sitting side by side. "Good morning, sweetcheeks," he addresses me with that stupid nickname, "up early for breakfast?"

I scoff, my defense mechanism kicking in along with the fact that I am starting to hate his guts. Forget the Games. Forget the sponsors. Vergil Wellwood is a pain in the ass. "Yes," I answer with a sly smile of my own. "I didn't want my appetite to be ruined like last night, so I woke up early and got to eat a lot before you came in."

Garett tries to hide his laughter by coughing.

Vergil's eyebrow twitches. "Oh, I didn't know the sight of me could ruin such a hearty appetite."

"The sight of you can't, fortunately. It's your mouth that can." I say.

The door opens before both of us could say more and before Garett could cry tears of laughter. In comes Cecelia with Zander, talking with low voices. When they see us, they greet us a good morning before taking their seats.

"Where's Woof?" Garett asks.

"He's having breakfast in bed." Zander says simply, before pouring coffee into his own mug.

"Aren't the two of you up too early?" Cecelia smiles at me as she reaches for a piece of toasted bread.

Vergil cuts in before I could talk to Cecelia. "Sweetcheeks told me that she got up early so she could eat a lot without me ruining her appetite. Boohoo."

For a moment, there is a look of disdain on Cecelia's face, which later turns into indifference. I feel my cheeks flush red. Is she mad at me? She is, isn't she? I'm ruining my chances at the Games by telling Vergil off, and now she's mad at me! She's not supposed to know about that! Vergil's the only one supposed to!

A chair being scraped on the floor makes my head snaps up. Vergil is standing up, making a stupid face that looks like he is on the verge of tears. "I'm going to eat in my room." He says, his voice quivering. It is when he is at the door when he throws his head back and laughs like a lunatic.

"I think he snapped." Garett says, obviously noticing my disappointment at myself, and trying to make me feel better. I'd thank him if I could, but seeing Cecelia look so… _stern_ makes me keep my mouth shut.

"So, here's the deal," Zander begins when he's had enough of the silence, "no matter how annoying the escort is, you don't just tell him off like you did, sweetcheeks."

If I talk back, I risk myself ending dead in the arena, so I bow my head like a good girl and prepare myself to take it all in. "I'm sorry."

"The mentors and the escort are all the help you could need right now." The warmth had gone from Cecelia's voice, and it feels as if I am being scolded by my mom. "Do you understand that you're risking a lifeline, Anya? A _lifeline_?"

"I'm sure she does," Garett suddenly interjects, "so maybe we can get back to eating peacefully now?"

"Not until you take this seriously." Cecelia says, probably to me. "You're entering the Games, the both of you. This Game is not some child's play you can wing. It's not something a game where you can forgive someone for hurting you. No, this is _the_ game where you can be killed if you can't take it seriously."

Her words are so true that they strike fear into me. I have not been taking this seriously. I've been treating it as some joke, as an outlet where I can taste the luxuries I can never afford. I've had some thoughts, yes, but I keep on delaying them that I've almost forgotten why I'm here. Why they're making me live so luxuriously before they rip it all away along with my life.

I feel sick. I stand up immediately, deaf to Garett calling my name, and run to the cab where my room awaits. The door opens for me and I run into the bathroom where I vomit all that I have eaten into the toilet. The bile scratches my throat but I can't stop the food from coming up. It leaves me tired, and breathless, and _weak_. I start to cry when I have nothing left to puke out, wishing that Mom was here, or Nidle. I've forgotten where I am. I've forgotten what I'm supposed to do. I've forgotten who put me in here.

I cry like how I cried when I said goodbye to my loved ones in 8. I don't know if it's because Cecelia got mad at me, or if it's because I'm stupid. I stand up, crying, to get out of the bathroom to cry on the bed. I bury my face in the pillows and scream my frustration out for good measure, too. That's when the door opens, and someone sits on the edge of my bed. "Go away, Garett." My voice is muffled because of the pillows, but I'm sure he'd understand. I am a magnet when it comes to comforting people, but Garett would understand if I want to be left alone.

"I'm not Garett." The voice says, and I lift my head up to see that it's Zander. I am not accustomed to seeing much of him, since he doesn't go out much in 8. Cecelia once told me that he liked being alone, though no one really wants to be lonely. Him coming in here to talk to me is strange. He doesn't even look like the comforting type, so why is he here? I guess he's in here to give me another sermon. I bury my head in the pillows again, afraid that if he starts talking, the tears would spill out again. I am becoming such a crybaby, I don't even like it one bit.

"Please go away." I plead.

"I can't understand what you're saying, sweetcheeks." At the sound of the stupid nickname Vergil has given me, I sit up slowly, sniffling. All I want is to be alone. I can't even have that now?

"Please go away." I repeat through sniffles.

Zander smiles softly. "No can do, sweetcheeks. I promised Ces I would talk to you."

Cecelia's name feels like a kick in the stomach. "Is she mad at me?" My words come out as a squeak.

Zander sits on the edge of the bed. He runs a hand through his blond hair, which makes me think of Nidle. But Nidle's hair is lighter, more ethereal to look at. All these thoughts make me miss him ever than before. "Mad? No. Furious? Yes." He notices my lip quivering. "I'm joking. She's just a bit angry. She had the right to be, though."

I bury my face in my hands. "I'm stupid. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry for your stupidity, sweetcheeks." I would have found it surprising that he is quite the talker, but I am too disappointed with myself to care, "I'm here to help you manage some of that."

I raise my head again. "What?"

"We've been talking about this since the start. I'm going to be your mentor."

"Shouldn't I be with Cecelia?" The thought of Zander—unknown, isolated Zander—mentoring me strikes an unknown chord of fear in my chest. I don't know him that much, and so does he.

"Do you think Cecelia wants to be your mentor after what happened?"

His words sting like salt being rubbed on a fresh wound. "No."

"That's what I thought, sweetcheeks. You're better off with me."

"I don't understand why."

"You don't need to understand."

"How can I trust you if I don't understand why you're my mentor instead of Ces?"

He smiles, a reaction I wasn't anticipating. "Sweetcheeks, I'm here to help you. I'm not here to let you die. Even if you don't trust me, I'll still be busy keeping you alive once you enter the arena in a week's time. I've had no luck with the others for the past nine years, but I'll push my luck with you. Ces will be doing the same with Garett, too. Believe in us. We're people of the same caliber, paddling hard enough for survival."

"Okay."

"'Okay'? That's all you have to say?"

"If you want me to trust you, please stop calling me sweetcheeks. It's stupid and annoying."

Zander shakes his head, chuckling. "No can do. You have to give it to Vergil. He may be a pain in the ass, but he's certainly got a knack for lasting nicknames. The female tribute last year? He called her Toodles. 'Sweetcheeks' sounds better, so it's staying."

"Fine." I say, rubbing my eyes with a blanket. The sniffles had gone, but the pain in my throat from retching is still there. I want a glass of water, but I dare not ask for one.

"Okay. So…" there is an awkward silence between us, to be expected of two people just talking for the first time, "about Garett."

I try to keep my face straight. "What's with Garett?"

He sighs. "You're best friends." It's not a question, I notice, so I answer with a simple but confused "Yes."

He sighs again. "Nothing." He runs a hand through his hair again. "A piece of advice. When we get to the station, try your best to swim in the sponsorship pool. First impressions last, and I don't think it would do you any good if you showed up with puffy eyes."

"Thanks for the advice."

He stands up with a smile playing on his lips. I hear his footsteps scrape the floor as he heads for the door. "Brighten up, sweetcheeks. We have a long day ahead."

He's right. We _have_ a long day ahead of us. Once we get to the Capitol, we are to be like whirlwinds, stopping at nothing and only getting to rest during the night. Even if I am alone, I try to follow Zander's advice: I smile. I smile while taking a bath, while easing myself up in my mom's lucky reaping dress again, while figuring out where I am to go, now that the Games are about to officially begin. I smile while knocking at Cecelia's door, asking for forgiveness for forgetting such a crucial detail. She forgives me, just like a mother forgives a child, with a small scolding and a lot of kisses on the top of my head. During early lunch, I smile at Vergil, and though I can feel that he has taken a disliking to me, he smiles back. Garett notices my wee change in behavior, so when lunch is done and we are the ones left in the area, he asks me what happened.

"I received a nice piece of advice." I tell him what Zander's advice was.

"He didn't need to tell you that." He laughs. "You're a smiley person enough."

The trees from the view earlier have long been replaced by mountains, towering masses of land that cover the other side from my eyes. I stare out the train window and watch as the scenery flies by. How far are we from 8? Are Bron and Cliff in school? Who's taking care of Dad? Is Nidle having lunch with Iris by now? Simple questions pierce my heart like a needle piercing a soft cloth. I am missing home more and more by the minute. For a moment, I forget Zander's piece of advice and frown, not for the people I left behind but for myself.

And that's when the scenery begins to shift again. From behind the mountains emerge buildings of all heights and widths. They are no taller than the mountains that hide them, but still, they are majestic to look at, a far cry from the run-down tenements back at home. I call Garett who is lounging lazily on a sofa, beckoning him to come closer, to possibly share the excitement pounding at my chest.

We're here. We've arrived at the Capitol.

Excitement sure is such a strange reaction for the place responsible for our hardships. I hold some excitement back, to make sure that I do not lose myself to the power and glory of the Capitol.

Vergil suddenly speaks up. "Enamored by the view, aren't we? Welcome to the Capitol, sweetcheeks. I hope you don't get too attached to it."

I remember Nidle's parting words. _Stupid Nidle_, I said back then. I guess I am the stupid one, really. "Don't worry," I tell Vergil with a smile. "I won't."

A few minutes more, all of us had gathered in the room, and the train enters a dark tunnel. I panic for a while in the darkness and only calm down when I feel Garett's hand on mine. "Ready?" He asks me. Even in the dark, I can tell that he is smiling.

I take a deep breath. "Ready."

Just then, the train emerges out of the tunnel, and bright lights seep into the windows. I squint, and only see blurs of colors: reds, blues, yellows, greens: every color I have encountered in the factory back at home is present. When my eyes finally adjust to the light, I see that the blurs of color are people. Capitol citizens, the lot of them, are waving excitedly at us, big grins on their tight and puffy lips.

"The stars have arrived." Zander says, dusting off his shirt. "The show begins."

"Shall we wave?" I turn to Garett. He shakes his head. "No," he answers me, "just smile."

I follow one of the many advices that could keep me alive. I smile at them, for the cameras. I smile for Iris, Nidle, and my family back at home. I smile at a potential sponsor who may keep me alive. The Game has begun, and I am beginning to play it as well.

* * *

_**Hi, it's me! :D Thank you for the continuous views! If you have any suggestions, critiques, reviews, or just things you want to say, you can either type it down the review box or send me a personal message. Thank you and happy reading! :)**_


	7. Fabulous

For some shifts, I was required to fit the mannequins with the dresses, so that photographs could be taken and sent to the Capitol for the buyers to look at. I'd dress them slowly, careful not to rip or damage anything that has been carefully built. Sometimes, I'd spend an hour fussing over a mannequin, making sure that everything is fitted perfectly.

Right now, I feel like a mannequin. But instead of being fitted with clothes, I am being washed clean, hosed down, plucked like a goose, and scrubbed like a dirty floor. Why are they scrubbing at me like this? I've just taken a bath in the train, too! Am I that dirty, or are the Capitol people just clean freaks?

"Her hair color is really pretty." A woman dyed in pink with a shrill voice says. "It reminds me a bit of rust." Her voice bounces off of the walls in my room at the Remake Center. As soon as we stepped off the train, vehicles came to pick us up to drop us here just as easily.

"It's auburn, Moira. Auburn." Another woman supplies the correct term. She is a stout lady, her arms crusted with swirls of gold tattoos. "Make sure it shines. Juliana will be pleased with it, I'm sure."

"Yeah, she's been into the _organic_ stuff lately, hasn't she?" A voice too sweet enough to be a man's, but still belongs to a man nonetheless, says.

"I'm sure she's going to change her mind sooner or later." Moira says.

I have been given over to gossipers whose Capitol accent fills my ears. From time to time, they ask me small questions-things such as my favorite color, how the weather is in District 8-until an answer of mine sets them off and they begin gossiping again. By the time they are doing some final touches on me, I have some knowledge on my stylist, Juliana: she's been into _organic_ stuff lately, meaning that she looked plain compared to the 'normal-looking' Capitol citizens; her lover recently gave her a diamond necklace, straight from the hands of District 1; and that next year, she might get promoted to District 4. By the time they are completely done with me, I have fallen asleep. I wake up when I feel a hand on my forehead and a voice beckoning me to open my eyes. I sit up, surprised, almost calling out Garett's name, when I see a woman in front of me, a soft smile on her lips.

"Hello. I'm Juliana." She extends her hand for a shake, and I accept, with a hint of doubt. I thought that she was going to look natural. The only natural-looking about Juliana is her skin, and how tan it is. Other than that, she has the same Capitol vibe to her: shockingly pink hair that cascades down her back, long eyelashes that are accentuated by glitter, a dress littered with feathers and sequins that somehow make it look like a whole factory of those assortments blew up near her.

If this is what natural-looking looks like to the whole lot of them, then I do not want to see what the unnatural looks like.

"You look pretty, my dear," she says, taking a lock of my hair in her hands. I resist the urge to swat her hands away. "But not fabulous. And my job is to _make_ you fabulous." She's been the stylist for 8 for four years, I've heard someone from the assistants say, and I silently give thanks that I am from 8 and not from 7, who are always and probably will be dressed as trees for forever. I've seen some of the outfits from the past years, and I must say that they're pretty. That alone can attest to the fact that Juliana is not going to screw this over for me.

"Come, dearie," she says in her sweet voice. I am glad that she hasn't heard of my nickname from Vergil. "Stuff yourself up before we get started."

I do stuff myself up. My retching from earlier has left me hungry again, so I eat heartily. There are a bunch of dishes again: lamb chops smothered in peanut sauce, steamed vegetables coated in melted cheese, a chocolate cake that dominates at three layers. I find heaven in buttered mashed potatoes, and that is what I continue on eating until Juliana tells me that it's time to change into my parade clothes and to gussy my face up.

I trail after her, faint excitement beating in my chest. When she shows me the costume I am about to wear, I cannot help but remember Iris and her red dress. This costume is so much more beautiful than anything Iris could ever have. It's a dress with so many layers, each layer a different kind of cloth and pattern that still fit in with each other. It has a wide array of colors, from a rich shade of green to a luscious shade of violet, to a proud blue and a flaming red. The colors remind me of the cloths back at the factories in 8. It's a wonder that out of our hardships come something so wonderfully beautiful. Juliana notices my silence and she lightly squeezes my shoulders. "Change into the dress first. We'll put make-up on you and fix your hair afterwards."

The dress fits me like a dream, which I do not understand, since I have never been measured. She first makes me wear the white base of the costume, which Juliana says is a maillot. It doesn't even cover my thighs or my legs, and there are no sleeves or a collar to mask my upper body. It's like a corset, in the sense that it pushes up my breasts. I gulp. I'm not used to showing so much skin. Back at home, I was always dressed in clothes that had sleeves, even if the weather became too hot. I try to give it small attention, though, since a costume _is_ a costume, and this one could possibly make up for the lifeline I lost by creating a spat with Vergil. I'll take anything that can save me now.

The first layer comes in, and it is a sheer, purple dress that gives a little bit of covering to my legs. It's _sheer_, though, so I don't feel too covered-up. The next layer comes, which is the blue one, and then the green, and then the red. The last one is a chest piece the color of gold, which wraps itself around me like a snake around its prey, while one side hooks my breast and the other one is just for support. There are no sleeves, but Juliana wraps my arms in the red cloth from before in crisscross patterns, creating makeshift sleeves that still look pretty. I slip my feet into short pink heels, and when she lets me look in the mirror, it feels as if someone foreign is staring back at me. I'm like a sophisticated rainbow brought to life, my dress creating a puddle of colors around me. I forget the bareness of it all.

"It's wonderful." I say, awestruck.

"No," Juliana giggles, "it's _fabulous_."

The next few hours go by like a blur. The gossipers are called back in to fix my hair and to put make-up on my face. When they entered the room, they were surprised by the new color of Juliana's hair, but they were even more surprised at my transformation, courtesy of the dress.

"You look absolutely wonderful," the stout woman says breathlessly. The man with the sweet voice claps his hands, while Moira says one word: "Fabulous."

"Just imagine the sponsors you can get!" Juliana gushes, before she lets the gossipers work their 'magic' on me. The stout woman, named Cardea, is in charge of my hair: it is brushed, then curled, and fluffed until it forms like a full cloud on my head. A gold headband keeps it from falling off. Moira starts applying make-up on me. From what I get, my eyes are to be smoky, my lips bloody red like I had just eaten 'a raw cow.' The man, whose name is Helio, paints my nails, although I am not too sure if someone would be close enough to be concerned with my nail polish. They speak in a language I don't fully understand: lip gloss, eye shadow, hairspray, nail polish remover. But by the time they are done with me, I have discovered the difference between eyeliner and mascara.

When all has been said and done, Juliana takes me by the hand and we head to the elevator. Zander is there, leaning on the wall, dressed in a simple suit tailored to fit every nook and cranny of his built. On the train ride to here, he looked sloppy, but that's a different story now: he looks stylish, as if he hasn't kept himself to his own in 8. He raises his eyebrows when he sees me, and nods a small nod of approval at Juliana.

"You look nice." He says, though his voice doesn't really measure up to his statement.

"She's not _nice_," Juliana shakes her head, "she's—"

"Fabulous." I say, and the elevator doors open. In a matter of seconds, we are brought down to the area where the chariots await.

The night is warm with the loud voices of people from afar, and the buzzing of tributes, stylists, and mentors. Tributes have gathered around their respective chariots, and I couldn't resist sneaking a peek at some. The tributes from 1 are dressed in gold and silver, while the ones from 4 have scales like fishes. District 7 is trees again, much to their chagrin, probably. I am trying to determine what the tributes from 6 are when Garett appears with his stylist and Cecelia and Woof beside him. He is dressed in a sleeveless suit that shows off his rather muscular arms. At different angles, the colors and patterns of his suit change. I try to remember a term that Cecelia once told me about, but I can't recall it.

"You look great." He smiles as soon he is within my hearing range.

"You don't look bad yourself." I say back, at the same time a buzzer rings.

"Ooh, time to board!" Juliana says. Garett holds out his hand to help me up the chariot, the eighth in line, and I hoist myself up. He follows suit, and the chariot wobbles a bit. Cecelia reaches up to tap Garett on the waist, and then me. "Good luck." Woof says with a small smile. I think it's the first time I've heard him speak, and the first time I've felt his presence. Garett thanks him.

"You can wave if you like." Cecelia tips us off. "The audience loves it when you give them recognition."

I sneak a glance at Zander, possibly for some last tips. He just draws a smile on his lips, and I need no more words. Another buzzer sounds of, and when I look forward, the first chariot is starting to exit, and the roaring of the crowd grows louder, the blaring of the music a bit quiet compared to their cheering.

"Be fabulous!" Juliana shouts as they are ushered to the sides where they can't be trampled by the horses.

All of a sudden, just as the chariot of District 5 begins to exit, I feel queasy. There are butterflies in my stomach, and for the briefest moment, I feel like the buttered mashed potatoes are going to go back up. Garett notices my discomfort, like he always does, and asks if I am okay.

"Yeah, just the mashed potatoes." I mutter. Then our chariot takes off.

For a moment I thought I was going to lose my footing, so I hold onto the chariot for dear life. It would do no good to humiliate myself. I tense up: my shoulders go rigid, my lips form a tight smile, and my hands remain frozen in place. Our chariot emerges out of the roof, and for the first time in two days, I see the open night sky above, the stars enhanced by the lights of the towering buildings of the Capitol. On the sides are hundreds and hundreds of people, cheering, waving, clamoring to get a glimpse of us. For a while, I feel thrilled, but then I remember, they'd be cheering for our deaths later on.

I search for Garett's opinion on the matter. I look over to him, and see him waving and smiling. He does it so naturally that I feel lost for a bit: is he actually enjoying this? Of course, he isn't. We've talked about how the Capitol relishes in our suffering for so many times.

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks: this is his strategy. To be welcoming, and open, and friendly, so that the sponsors would love it. The Capitol loves their fair share of cold-blooded, menacing killers, but they always go nuts over tributes who looks joyous.

I try to be on the same level as him. I start waving, smiling more effortlessly with all the courage I could muster, as if I found a reason to enjoy being there. If I can't enjoy the idea of being in the Games, then I'll enjoy the idea of me experiencing the kind of life I could never have back home. _Look, I'm wearing a dress more beautiful than yours,_ I mentally tell one lady wearing a dress that looks like a cloud, _you're a cloud and I'm a fabulous rainbow._ The feeling rushes over me, drowning out my doubts like the humming of the machines drowning out the idle chatter of the workers back in the factories in 8.

_District Eight!_ Mom and Dad are watching back home! So are Cliff, and Bron, and Nidle! I imagine their voices cheering me on, telling me how wonderful I look, and somehow, my smile is no longer forced though my cheeks start hurting. I wave enthusiastically to the crowd, relishing in their delight, and for a brief, beautiful moment, I could hear Nidle whispering in my ear how stupidly beautiful I am.

The chariots enter the City Circle, and when the chariot of District 12 rolls and settles in like the rest, the cheering grows so loud I can feel the ground trembling. Names are shouted from the right and from the left, each citizen wanting their tribute to not go unnoticed. I am breathless from the rush of it all. I turn to Garett, and when our eyes meet, we break out in smiles. He takes my hand in his, and then I hear my heart beating in my ears.

"That was something." He says. I have no words to describe it. I just nod, and then the music stops.

A man emerges from the balcony suspended high above, with powder-white hair and a beard of the same color. He is wearing a black suit, and attached on the lapel is white rose. It's President Snow.

He stretches out his arms as if to embrace everyone in the City Circle. I don't know if he is capable of such an emotion. "Tributes," his voice rings throughout the now-quiet area. "This is a glorious day indeed. Let us all welcome the twenty-four tributes who have wonderfully graced the Capitol. Welcome, tributes, to the Sixty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games."

The crowd cheers again. So the Games truly begin, now that the president has declared it. Slowly, the smile on my face turns into a frown. Death is coming for us in a week. My grip on Garett's hand tightens.

"May the odds," and his voice drips with menace and thirst for something I don't want to know, "be ever in your favor."

Nidle would probably say something along the lines of, "Not that they've been for a long time." The crisp quality of his voice in my head makes me ache for home again. I wonder, would he be like Garett, if he was the one reaped? Would he be smiling and waving, or would he be scowling, muttering curses underneath his breath? What is he even thinking of me right now? But all I can feel is Garett's hand in mine, and how strong his grip is. My piece of home I'm not letting go anytime sooner.

The anthem of Panem starts to play, and the cheering of the people restart again. The chariots make one final round in the City Circle before finally going back in. Once the gates close, the cheering of the people get muffled, and my ears have a hard time adjusting to the new-found quietness. Garett jumps off the chariot and assists me down. I feel my palms sweating.

"Fabulous!" Juliana says as she rushes to me and Garett, giving us each a peck on the cheek. "The people out there loved you!"

Zander and Cecelia stride towards us, smiles on their faces. Cecelia looks like a proud mother, while Zander's smile almost looks natural. "Great job out there." Cecelia gives Garett an embrace, and then me.

Zander taps me on the shoulder. "Good job, sweetcheeks."

"Thanks." I get out. My eyes settle on some of the tributes while Juliana chatters on with Garett's stylist. The trees from 7 are looking very nervous. The girl from District 6 is biting on her nails, while the twelve-year old from District 5 looks like she's about to cry again.

"Anya!" Garett calls out, and when I see him, he is already hallway to the elevators with everyone. I was so consumed in observing the other tributes that I didn't notice them leaving.

"Coming!" I call back, and when I am on my third step towards them, someone steps on the hem of my rainbow dress and I hear a loud _riiiiiiiip!_ and Juliana's very audible gasp. I instinctively pull my dress away and when I look up, the girl from 2 is looking at me, her eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed. There is a piece of cloth under her sharp red shoe.

"Watch where you're going, Eight." She spits out in disgust and walks away.

I am left dumbfounded. Is she the one mad at me? Isn't that just _wrong_? I should be the one mad at her for stepping on my dress! When I see the others looking at me, I erase the confusion on my face and hold my head high, trying my earnest to hide my embarrassment. When I reach Garett and the others, it feels like I've walked a thousand steps instead of twenty.

"What a bitch," I mutter under my breath when I reach Garett.

"She ruined my _fabulous_ dress!" Juliana screeches when she saw the hole.

Zander gives me a squeeze on my shoulder. "Looks like you've found an enemy already. Well done, sweetcheeks."

"That's not a nice joke." Cecelia tells Zander. The elevator doors open, and our whole party files in. She presses the number 8, and the doors close.

I have a feeling Zander isn't joking at all. I remember the look the girl from 2 gave me: cold and lingering, like she was trying to memorize every detail of my face so that I can appear in her dreams for her to kill. I shudder. Garett wraps his arm around me as a gesture of comfort, but I still can't shake of the sound of the girl's voice. _"Watch where you're going, Eight,"_ she said, but I know that there is more to it than just that. _Watch where you place yourself because I am going to kill you._


	8. Eligible For Death

_**So hi guys! I'm sorry that this update has come so late. I got swamped with problems about school, plus I had doubts on whether to rewrite this whole thing or not. I figured to maybe finish it before rewriting, though I know it's going to be kind of hard again. Also, is anyone willing to be a beta-reader for this? I don't know anyone here personally, or have relationships with other writers here, but if you (yes, you) would like to beta-read this, please send me a personal message :) anyway, special thank yous to the people who still view this even without a recent update. this chapter is the shortest (and probably, most abrupt) one so far. also, daily reminder that the hunger games franchise/trilogy is not mine, but the characters Zander, Vergil, Anya, Nidle, Iris, and Garett are. without further ado, here you go.**_

* * *

For breakfast, we feasted on various types of bread, eggs and more eggs, crisp slices of bacon, fruits, other dishes, and Zander's advice. I had my first cup of coffee, and after my first sip, it seems that my senses were slapped awake and every word coming out of my mentor's mouth was crisp and clear.

"A common strategy during the training would be to not _entirely_ to show off your skills." The sound of Zander stirring his coffee loudly makes my head hurt, for some unknown reason. "To be honest, you need to find your middle ground. If you have skills based on weaponry and you show them all of, then by all means, you'll be a primary target of the pack that consists of One, Two, and Four. Show no skills at all, and they'll leave you alone. But this would hurt your scores with the Gamemakers, and possibly, potential sponsors."

"We can use that to an advantage, though? Appearing weak and helpless?" Garett says. I can't help but make an impressed face at what he has just said.

"Yes. But I guess, it all comes down to your preference. If you have believable acting chops, then you can act helpless and rip their throats out as soon as the gong sounds." Zander replies. "What are you planning to do?" He points his teaspoon at me. "Sweetcheeks?" From the head of the table, I can hear muffled laughter from Vergil the Ass.

I shrug. "Maybe not show it all, perhaps?"

Vergil finally lets it out: he snorts. "_If_ you have something to show."

Garett speaks up before I could. "I think that's a nice plan. Not showing it all."

Zander raises his eyebrows at both of us. "If you're willing to go that way, and then want a decent score to help with sponsors and stuff, you need to show the Gamemakers on the last day of training your actual skills." He rolls his eyes. "And please, for the love of Panem, it has to be better than your performance during the training."

Cecelia dabs a napkin on the sides of her mouth. On her plate is a piece of toast with something called mango jam slathered on it, which looks both appetizing and disgusting. "I think Zander is starting off in the wrong direction. Do you guys have some skills that will help in the arena? Garett?"

Garett shrugs. "Pushing buttons?"

I can't help but laugh. Really, our district has taught us nothing but to push buttons. I wonder how that could come in handy? There's a rumor that the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 are trained for the Games. The guys from 3 can use technology to their advantage, especially if there are such items in the Games. The people from 7 are good with axes because of their livelihood, while those from 10 are possibly good with heavy stuff since they do livestock, and use whips and such?

Judging from my generalizations, the ones who have the upper hand are the ones from districts 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, and 10, while the ones with the least chances are the remaining districts, which include ours. These calculations are based on nothing but speculations, but I cannot help but feel pitiful towards me and Garett. Pushing buttons? _Buttons?_ How the heck can that help with winning the Games? Unless the arena is a garment factory, then we need to train hard.

"Programming how many scarves should be the output at the end of the day." I say through my laughter, and Garett smiles. I can see smile wrinkles forming on Woof's face.

"Very funny, ha ha ha." Zander says. "You're other mentor just asked you a question that tips the scales on your chances at life or death. Any skills worth mentioning? Aside from pushing buttons and programming outputs, and making fun of your situation?"

"Garett can run fast." I tell them in a nonchalant way.

He turns to me. "Well, you can run fast, too."

"Not as fast as you. You've beaten me for so many times." I win over Nidle, mostly, but always lose out to Garett. When he runs, he runs as if he's stolen a bag of candy, and the husband of the shopkeeper is imminent on finding the culprit.

"That's true." He turns his attention over to Cecelia and Zander. "We both run fast."

Cecelia sighs a sigh of relief. It's in that moment that I realize she doesn't know my running abilities. "That would be a big help. You can just run ahead to the Cornucopia as soon as the gong sounds, and get everything you need."

I find the idea to be a bit risky. I can't seem to remember any Games where the Cornucopia wasn't dominated by the tributes from 1, 2, or 4. "Does that work?" I see from the other edge of the table that Woof nods.

"For some." Zander says. "If you really have quick feet, then it's an advantage."

"We have something, then." I say.

"What about allies?" Garett asks, and the word sounds hollow in my ears.

Allies? Of course! A tribute needs an ally or two for maximum chances at survival, unless that ally would prove to be an obstacle rather than help. I look at him, intent on knowing his reason for asking that.

Vergil speaks up. I almost forgot that he was there. "Since you two are good friends," he says, his champagne flute swirling in his hands, "I suggest that you two become allies."

"_You're not even a mentor, so stop suggesting stuff,"_ I am about to say, but Zander laughs as if Vergil just told a joke. "That's just going to make it harder on these kids. Only one can come out of that arena alive, and by pairing them up, you just split their chances in half."

_Only one can come out of that arena alive._ I take a sip of my coffee to find that it's gone cold. It leaves me a hollow feeling in my stomach. Not the coffee, but Zander's words. It's what he was trying to pry upon during the train ride, when it was our first time alone together. This is what he was anticipating.

"I see your point, Vergil," Cecelia says, "but there is also a point in what Zander is saying." She takes a good look at us. I feel as if she's already seeing me as Anya the tribute, and no longer as Anya the babysitter of her kids. The hollow feeling in me worsens, and I tense. Garett seems to notice—why does he always notice _everything?_—and settles a hand on mine.

"Well, once the going gets tough, they can just split. Go their separate ways. Wait until the other one dies."

"That's very sick." I say, truly disgusted. Me leaving Garett out to die? Garett leaving _me_ out to die?

"No, sweetcheeks. What's sicker is you killing each other." His point is as sharp as a carving knife. I can actually feel it twisting in my belly. Friends breaking off an alliance to go their separate ways, without thinking of the other one even as death looms over, is sick. Friends killing each other because it's the rule of the game is sicker. I can feel my hand shaking, and Garett trying his very best to keep me comforted.

"I honestly think that these two cannot break off their alliance once it's been formed." Zander continues on. "If that happens, they might become each other's luggage. There might come a time where the other one dies in front of the other—"

I slam my free hand on the table. I can't take this talk anymore. It feels as if the good breakfast in front of me turned into moldy food with maggots and flies all over it. "Can we talk about this next time?"

"There won't be a next time, sweetcheeks." Vergil says. "You're going into the arena sooner than it actually feels."

"I mean, can we not talk about this _now?_ Maybe later, but _please,_ not now!" I half-shout. The table remains silent until Garett squeezes my hand, and he says, "It's thirty minutes to ten. Should we go down to the training center?"

Cecelia speaks in a tone that's as hard as stone. "You should go."

"Just let me brush my teeth." I say, my throat suddenly dry. I get out of the dining area without being excused, walk briskly to my room, and brush my teeth until a part of my gums bleed. I try to push away the thought of a possible alliance with Garett, and I somehow succeed, because my attention goes to my bleeding gums. It stops as I enter the dining room again, but not without the taste of blood filling my mouth.

Garett is already there again, his hair brushed. The others, including Vergil, are still seated, picking at their food.

"A last piece of advice for you two." Cecelia says, still in the same hard tone. "You can make friends, or allies, if you prefer."

"Just don't get too attached. You'll see, at the beginning of the Games, the alliances wouldn't matter at all."

"We'll just be kids plopped into a man-made world, where everyone is eligible for death, right?" Garett says with half a smile that I know is not genuine as he puts it out to be.

"Touché." Zander toasts in our direction.

A chair scrapes, and Vergil stands, his champagne flute newly-refilled. He ushers us to the elevator, where he presses a button labeled 0. "I'd go with you, but I have a bottle of champagne to finish." He smiles at me. "Good luck with your training, sweetcheeks."

I smile back at him. "Who knows, Vergil? I might have the aptitude for throwing knives. It'd be a big help of you serve as a dummy for target practice later."

"See you soon, too." He says, and the doors of the elevator open. Garett and I enter, and as soon as we turn back to face our escort, the doors close again.

"Thanks." I say in the middle of our confinement.

"For what?" Garett says, amused.

"Don't make me say it."

"Come on, Anya. I honestly don't know."

"Liar." I say, before giving up. "Okay. For being there. For comforting me when Vergil starts saying stupid things."

"What can I do?" He smiles again. "I'm a stand-in for Nidle at the moment."

I feel my heart begin to pound fast. How can he say those words so easily? If I were to say that I am a stand-in for Iris, I'd feel weird, and embarrassed, and blithering like an idiot. "How-" I start to reason out, but he puts a finger over his lips, and the elevator doors open.

"Training first. Talk later." And he lightly pushes me out, with him following closely behind.


End file.
